Conrad Aiken - The Collected Short Stories of Conrad Aiken

Messy was profoundly moved—he had never in his life experienced anything like this. It touched him, there was something pathetic in it, something childlike, but also it was wildly exciting, and he felt himself being swept away. He closed his eyes and surrendered to it, and it seemed to him, as he kissed Bella’s delicious soft throat, that she was going to have a sort of convulsion. She began to rock from side to side, rhythmically, and to moan; she began to nip his cheek with her teeth, with a kind of quick light fierceness; she seemed incapable of lying still. And then suddenly she had reached up and turned on the light, and almost with the same gesture had ripped her blouse off, so that it had fallen down about her hips.

Messy stared at her: he was now sitting on the edge of the bed. She was beautiful: she looked at him with such an expression as he had never seen before. He thought her breasts the loveliest things he had ever seen in his life. Then he reached for his pince-nez, and put them on, blinking.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered.

“Love me.”

“Bella—”

“What?” Her voice made scarcely a sound.

“It wouldn’t be fair. We mustn’t. Listen.”

“What?”

A drawn, an agonized and suspicious look had come across Bella’s face—she was staring at him almost as if she were being hypnotized. She drew back from him a little, and shivered.

“We can’t only think of ourselves. It wouldn’t be right. You know it wouldn’t. There are others to think of. I know you make fun of my father—you think because he’s a preacher he’s a fool—but he’s a good man. I know I’m weak, but I am trying to live up to his ideals, and my mother’s ideals. My mother is a perfect saint. You’ve seen her picture. Do you know she’s stone deaf? And I’ve never heard a word of complaint from her—never a word of complaint. She’s a good woman, Bella. And my little sisters, Daisy and Gwen—I keep all their pictures on my dressing-table. They are innocent, all of them, the way we ought to be. And what good would it do us? It’s just the flesh, just an appetite—there’s no more in it than that—we’d be no happier, would we …?”

Bella’s lips had parted, but she said nothing.

“We wouldn’t be any happier. We’d feel degraded. We’d feel ashamed, afterward, and dirty in our minds. And how could I ever look my little sisters in the face, or my mother? Bella—” he reached out his hand and laid it softly on her knee—“let’s be brave. Will you?… Say you will. It will make our love deeper than ever.”

Two tears had sprung from Bella’s eyes, and were starting irregularly down her cheeks. She began to sob, at first softly, then more loudly, putting her face down on her arms. Messy patted her shoulder, afraid that somebody might hear them.

“Bella!” he said. “Bella!”

“Yes.” The voice was choked and faint.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Have you ever seen a sunrise? Have you ever seen the milkman bring the bottles?… We’ll go out and walk along the river and watch the sunrise. That’s what we need.… Will you?… Come along now!”

He went on talking to her, quietly, gently, tenderly—he could feel that he was impressing her. He told her about his home life, about the morning prayers, when each member of the family knelt before a chair, about his mother’s patience and sweetness, and all their belief in him. If they knew he went out with chorus girls it would break their hearts. How could they know, as he did, that Bella was an exception? But he knew it, and she did; they both knew that their relation was a beautiful one, and pure. Wasn’t that true? He stroked her knee with his hand, this time not withdrawing it from the warm flesh. By degrees Bella’s sobbing diminished. She leaned her little face against his shoulder, and seemed, for a while, to be asleep. Her breathing became slower and more regular, now and then she gave a little sigh. Messy pulled the silked blouse up about her, with a feeling of infinite goodness, and put his arms around her. Poor little girl, he thought, poor little thing.

They both slept. And early in the morning, when they had waked, and she had washed her face, they stole separately out of the hotel, and were walking across the dark Gardens toward the frozen river. The sky was beginning to grow light, with a tint of faint coral, and everything was perfectly still. They walked arm in arm, holding very closely to each other, their footsteps echoing sharply over the frozen and crusted snow; and Messy thought how wonderful life was, how deep, how strange, and how beautiful its promise for the future.

It was one of those lovely spring afternoons when she resented bitterly, in spite of her strict Presbyterian upbringing, the economic necessity which compelled her to coop herself up in this stuffy little schoolroom. She sighed, and looked out through the open windows at the sky, which had that melting softness of hue that comes only in April. Outside, in the eaves and on the roofs, and in the budding trees, she could hear the bubbling and squeaking of the absurd starlings—so human and so comical. Good heavens! If one were only as free as the starlings! If only one’s father weren’t a mere country parson, with no money, and no influential friends, and no society to provide for his daughters! Why must it be like this?… Of course, it would be better in the autumn, when she escaped from all this and got away to college at last—then she would have some freedom, would meet new and interesting people and have a life of her own. But even then, how could she manage on the tiny allowance which was all that her poor father could afford? Even with the scholarship that she was almost sure to get—?

The little bell in the school cupola began ringing, and the rows of little girls made a great bustle of putting away books and papers. Thank goodness—it was over. Over till tomorrow, anyway! She rose and pushed back her chair and gave the signal for the girls to stand and form in line. What was Violet Masters blushing for, looking so ridiculously self-conscious? Oh well, she couldn’t be bothered to try to find out. She gave another signal, and they filed past, becoming noisier as they drew near the door that led into the hall and street. The sound of their shouts and laughter came in through the windows, and the clattering of their shoes on the cobbles. They too were relieved—just as much as she was. It was absurd, this everlasting business of schooling, of preparing—and preparing for what? What good did Latin do them, or the binomial theorem? Would it help them to roast a joint or darn their husband’s corduroy breeches? Or to keep their brats from falling into the river or getting enlarged tonsils?

She frowned, pulling on her worn gloves, gathered up the bundle of Latin exercises that she would have to correct in the evening, and moved toward the door. It was only then that she permitted herself to think of that—to think of the delicious thing that all afternoon had underlain her every consciousness. Yes: the distinguished visitor—her father’s old friend, Mr. Waite, the novelist—would already have arrived at the house, where he was going to spend the night. He would be there now, sitting in the small library, while Mother was getting the tea. Or perhaps in the back yard, under the lilac tree. Or playing the piano. To think, after all these years during which there had been no visitors at all, of having anyone so famous come to see them! And wouldn’t he be surprised at finding her—Mary—so grown up, and so—well, why not admit it?—interesting? She blushed with pleasure at this thought. She could imagine clearly how astonished he would look, how his blue eyes would light up, and how he would smile as he held out his hand. He would be too polite to say anything about it, of course—he would contrive to say it merely in the way he took her hand. But none the less he would be impressed. He would at once see that this was someone to whom he could talk freely, to whom he could open his heart. She could see just how it would be. He would at first be perhaps a little shy with her—at finding, as it were, a new “person” in the family to be dealt with. And then, instead of simply spending all his time with Father, as he used to do years ago, he would manifest a disposition to loiter in the room with her. Perhaps he would ask her about her music. “Well, Mary, and how is the music?…” And she would play the “Sonata Appassionata” for him—first lighting the candles on the piano. And he, standing behind her, would turn the pages.…